


chacun voit midi à sa porte.

by softestlarrie



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Harry Styles - Freeform, Letters, Louis Tomlinson - Freeform, M/M, harry writes letters to louis but also really just kind of to himself ?, larry stylinson - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 11:23:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13589025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestlarrie/pseuds/softestlarrie
Summary: an anthology of crumbled up paper discovered in the infamous harry styles' room after the incident.reader discretion advised.





	1. PSA

 

 

 

**THE STYLES PARADOX.**

 

 

these have no particular order. this is only for the general public to gain insight on styles' mind before what happened. we found a heap of these papers. i nor anyone but styles, can sort them. there are no dates. treat these pieces with respect, as it is all we really have left of the man.

 

  
— _a random researcher._


	2. LETTER ONE

 

 

 

  
**THE STYLES PARADOX.**

 

 

i cannot say why my mind will not let my body rest. why it won't allow me the distant quiet of sleep, of subconscious versions of your i can blame on the — for lack of better words : weird — fascination my mind has with you.

  
i can say it isn't my heart.

 

but here i am. at 2 am, tears held behind red eyes and translucent eyelids, taped by spidery eyelashes and i sit in this chair, this long chair in this lonely room in this lonely house, and i type as i cry inside.

 

i tell you. i love you. and i'm sorry. and it wasn't meant to be this way. and that you're my best friend and that maybe. maybe i was scared. and that it's not your fault.

 

but i am a coward.

 

i cannot muster up the same courage as you. i can't tell you why i'm so afraid, i cannot tell you false lies of how i understand you're beyond our time. i can just sit and type and cry and breathe and wish you were here and tell myself i don't.

 

i can only do that.

 

i am a sad man. i am man not meant for you love not meant for the soul you have. the sun is in your smile and the stars in your eyes and the moon is in your touch and you look to me like saturn, with your rings of beauty and your brightly coloured soul.

 

and i type that i love you. my dear saturn. knowing that my letters will never reach your pink hands and instead be crushed in my blue flesh. and i will hold these secrets as i watch you fulfil your dreams and i will not tell you how proud i am.

 

not unless it's two am. in the solace of my own sad home, on a creaking chair, in front of a typewriter, with a flimsy paper waiting to be ripped.

  
like all the others.

 

i guess. to say the least. i'm sorry i'm not what you deserve. and i'm sorry im selfish and afraid and i cannot fathom the idea of them thinking of me in a way — this way, with their lips curled and i'm just.

 

louis. im sorry.

 

all the love. harry.

 

 

 

_this was the first letter of hundreds i found in styles' room. i unscrambled the paper and felt as if i were intruding on something desperately private between a man and his thoughts._

  
_so naturally. i published it._

  
_— douche researcher._


End file.
